


Waiting for This Story to End Before I Begin Another

by Neurotoxia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandonment, Angst, M/M, Sibling Incest, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Mycroft had ever done was abandon him. Now that Sherlock wanted to get away, Mycroft wouldn't leave him alone</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting for This Story to End Before I Begin Another

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crookedspoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/gifts).



> My gift to the phenomenal [crookedspoon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon) for being the best beta I could ask for and just generally for you being you. You are the Martin to my Douglas ♥

  
_All my stories are about being left,_  
 _all yours about leaving_.  
\-- Jan Heller Levi  
  


Mycroft didn’t have the decency to leave him alone. It didn’t matter how hard he tried to get away, his brother was persistent. Now that Sherlock would give anything in his power if it would make Mycroft go away, his brother had turned up the omnipresence a notch. It was ironic -- Mycroft had had no problem leaving him behind before.

 _“Sherlock, I have to go back to university”_  
  _“Sherlock, I’m going to work for the government”_  
    _“Sherlock, I’m engaged.”_

Now he was trapped in the back of a car with Mycroft, manhandled into it by his brother’s lackeys. Sherlock was fuming.

“So glad you could make it,” Mycroft said with a mocking smile.

Sherlock wasn’t in the mood to deal with him. “Piss off, Mycroft! What the hell do you want? ”

“Don’t be vulgar, Sherlock. I’m merely looking after you.”

Sherlock crossed his arms and glared at Mycroft. “I don’t require looking after from you.”

Mycroft sighed. “You quit university and moved to London without telling anyone. Mummy was worried. I was worried.”

“Oh, now you care?” Sherlock huffed.

“I have always cared about you,” Mycroft said and sounded bitter. His hand tightened on the armrest, the golden wedding band on his left shining in the light from the overhead lamps. Sherlock had a sudden impulse to take it and throw it out of the car and into the Thames where Mycroft would never get it back.

Mycroft must have sensed what Sherlock had been staring at. He withdrew his hand, hiding the ring from Sherlock’s sight. To anyone else, the movement would have looked incidental.

Sherlock huddled in his seat, as far away from Mycroft as he could. The leather smelt faintly of beeswax, usually one of Sherlock’s favourite scents -- today, it made him ill. It reminded him too much of home, too much of grandfather and his beehives, which Sherlock had always found fascinating. Mycroft had been wary of the bees; he still didn’t like them very much. Mycroft had never told him why, but Sherlock suspected his brother had been stung badly as a child. When Mycroft had kept an eye on Sherlock during these times at the beehives, he had stood back and let Sherlock lead.

Here and now, Sherlock wasn’t the one leading the charge. He had to rely on Mycroft letting him go, even though the doors were unlocked. If Sherlock left before Mycroft was finished, he would just come after him again. The thought was hateful. Sherlock just wanted to be far away from his brother and his job and his wedding band.

“Just leave me alone,” Sherlock felt exhausted. “Go back to running the country and to your bloody wife. It’s time for an heir, isn’t it?”

He didn’t want to think about crawling into Mycroft’s bed as a little boy when thunder rolled outside and he waited before it was over. The times he had played his violin for Mycroft, eager for his praise. The times as a teenager when Mycroft had threaded his hand through Sherlock’s hair and pulled him closer. When Mycroft had run his fingers along Sherlock's spine. When he had spent a few stolen hours in Mycroft’s bedroom, wearing nothing at all and breathing in his brother’s scent.

“Sherlock, there are certain expectations placed upon a man in my position--”

_Spare me,_ Sherlock thought and tuned out the rest of the speech; he had heard it all before. The man on his way to running the country had to have a wife from an influential family, plus a few children running about. Mycroft had the wife, courtesy of Mummy, and the first child couldn’t be far off. Everyone expected it, so Mycroft would father a child. A small parasite that would draw Mycroft’s attention even further away from Sherlock. Had he only been a placeholder for the transition? The Lorem Ipsum text until Mycroft had found a suitable replacement?

Mycroft’s life was dedicated to fulfilling his duty, reaching his goals. So he would become father and husband if it facilitated becoming the one to pull the government’s strings. Even if he found the societal expectations imbecilic. Sherlock didn’t understand why anyone with an intellect like Mycroft would submit to this.

“I don’t want to talk about this.” Sherlock sounded harsher and more petulant than he felt. “In fact, I don’t want to talk to you at all. Just leave me be.” He reached for the door handle. He’d rather Mycroft come see him again than stay any longer.

When he felt Mycroft’s fingers close around his wrist, Sherlock froze.

“Sherlock...” Mycroft let the name hang in the air. His thumb caressed the veins on Sherlock’s wrist and the touch crawled up Sherlock’s arm like fire.

Sherlock closed his eyes and willed himself not to turn around. “Let me go,” he whispered.

He couldn’t look at his brother. If he turned around, he’d falter. He’d close the distance, crawl into Mycroft’s lap and press him into the beige leather. Before Mycroft would know it, Sherlock would have claimed his lips, clawed his way under the immaculate, dark-grey three piece suit and ripped the blood red tie from Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft’s fingers would dig into Sherlock’s thighs while Sherlock would open his trousers, reach inside and close his hand around--no.

Sherlock shook off the train of thought like an insect and tore his hand from Mycroft’s. For a moment, he fumbled with the door. He threw it open and fled outside, his heart pounding in his throat. A few pedestrians looked at Sherlock’s hasty retreat with mild curiosity. He ignored them. At least they would make sure Mycroft didn’t come after him, small as the chance was. Mycroft wasn’t the kind of man who ran after someone. And sending one of his goons after Sherlock would be too conspicuous in broad daylight with passersby around.

Before he darted around a corner, Sherlock threw a quick glance over his shoulder, seeing the slightly blurred outline of Mycroft as one of his assistants closed the door Sherlock had left open.

When Sherlock skittered to a halt, he leaned against the rough wall behind him, catching his breath -- and it wasn’t short from running. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and sagged down to the ground, drawing his knees to his chest and resting his forehead against them.

The ghost of Mycroft’s hand still burned around his wrist.


End file.
